It's Elementary My Dear Watson
by TimelessDetective
Summary: AU: Dramatic pasts drive both Sherlock and John all the way to New York City to start new where the recovered drug addict and ex-British Consultant Detective meets the depressed ex-British Military doctor by chance. Fate is in the works it seems, but with Sherlock not being honest with John about why he had to leave London cause trouble? What then when his past catches up to him?
1. Pilot

Hello all and welcome to chapter one of what hopefully will be of many more to come! (Depending on how many of you might like this plot twist of mine.)

Consider this a pilot, or trial run, so to say that will be flashback leading up to where our characters will be present day. Now, my writing skills are a bit rusty-after all it has been a while since I've had an idea that just wouldn't leave me alone. This idea sprung from my recent liking of CBS's "Elementary" along with my long-standing devotion to BBC's Sherlock. As you might have assumed already this is an AU universe where certain events in the characters lives have happened differently then in the canon. Obviously, because this will be a cross over of sorts with "Elementary."

If you have any questions or see any errors please do not hesitate to point them out or to critique me. Helpful criticism makes for a better writer, no?

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of BBC or Doyle's Sherlock characters or plots(that will be alluded to.)**

~~~~~/\~~~~~

It's Elementary My Dear Watson

.

.

**_Pilot_**

.

.

Dull. That is exactly what London has become; completely and irrevocably dull. People walk through the streets with their petty problems of money, work, and relationships without ever knowing the real problems of the world. Nothing of interest ever happens unless someone either dies in a sudden, tragic manner or mysteriously vanishes. At least, that's how it is for a certain consultant detective. Well, _ex-_consultant.

Now Sherlock finds himself once again reclined along his leather sofa in his small, musty flat in London that his brother Mycroft so kindly payed for. He isn't dressed; instead he's chosen to lounge in his pajamas and bath robe as usual. He has no work in his self-made profession as a consulting detective, but after all that had transpired he most likely won't anytime soon or if ever. He scoffed, those people- the Yard and Mycroft of course- were being ridiculously immature over the events that had occurred. None of it was his fault; he solved crimes for a living- crimes that were far to advance for the simple-minded fools that claimed to work them. Of course it was natural that one day a highly superior criminal was going to rise to the challenge of besting the lot of them.

A pale, lanky arm reached out from where it had been lost in the folds of his robe to come up and run fingers through his dark curls. Amateurs is what the lot of them are, a whole community of brain-numbed amateurs. The detective sighed in exasperation before quickly jumping up to walk over to his music stand by the window where his Stradivarius sits waiting on the side table. He picked it up and placed his bow, it immediately flowing through complex warm-ups without Sherlock even having to think about it. He decided that if anything was to be done today, it would be to complete the score he was halfway through composing. Sherlock once again started from the top, all of it so far stored in his mind to play through at will, and as he got near the last bar line Sherlock began to quickly analyze to decide what would fit perfectly after that F-sharp.

"_You know, you're really good at that," a sultry voice spoke from behind him. "I'd love to see you play me like that."_

The bow screeched across the strings, making the most horrendous noise possible, before Sherlock, in shock, dropped his Stradivarius, bow and all, to the ground. The detective spun around quickly, observing every inch of his flat as he did, even though he knew no one was there.

"The Woman…" Sherlock muttered with displeasure as he remembered when those words were spoken last. He had worked on that same composition the last time she has appeared to him-before when his circumstances where different. He looked down at his prized violin with distaste now; it seems that even she has ruined that for him as well. He quickly packed up the instrument in its case and stuck it under his arm-chair by the wall as it was low enough to the ground where it would be permanently out of sight. With a grunt of displeasure the brunette threw himself once again on the leather couch, resigned now to sit in silence for the rest of the day now that another past time of his was ruined. If possible his frown deepened. This lifestyle of inactivity was ruining his minds standard ability to run in absolute perfection. Instinctively, his right arm seemed to have then risen of its own accord. The pale blue sleeve of his robe fell down to accumulate around his shoulder and revealed the tracks along his arm- all strikingly pronounced on his pale limb. He wasn't even thinking as his left hand moved swiftly to reach underneath the couch to pull out a small shaving kit. From within he pulled out the hypodermic needle and his already prepared injection. It took no time at all, because by now injecting this stimulant was a perfected practice. Sherlock sighed as he began to feel the effects almost immediately, his brain quickly adjusting to the stimulant as he could feel the rush of numerous and scattered thoughts washing over him. Vaguely, Sherlock wondered how he had come to result to such dull methods to get back the rush he used to get from being able to solve crimes and puzzling deaths.

"_No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I just don't want to rush it." The criminal told him. His voice was jovial, but his eyes were cold and full of darkness._

Closing his eyes, Sherlock fell back into his mind palace where he let his mind carry him back to the beginning, before all of this mess started, and to where his life was still somewhat mildly interesting.

~~~~/\~~~~

**(Sherlock****)**

It all began suddenly with those mysteriously related suicides. I had been brought in and within six hours had deduced the importance of finding the pink suitcase and the real meaning behind the word "Rachel." Lestrade had been with me then and, by using the tracking on the pink phone planted by the Pink Lady on her killer, had traced the signal to a poor cab driver in central London. The man told us that he had a "sponsor," and that for every person he killed money went to his kids. What was irritating the most about the whole thing was that the blasted cabbie would refuse to give the name of the Sponsor. Now if I had been alone, well, I had ways of making people talk; but, with him sitting in the middle of Scotland Yard it made any attempts to get a name impossible. The Cabbie then conveniently died of an "aneurism" a little over two hours later where he took the name of his sponsor to the grave. I'll admit this left me feeling deeply unsatisfied and grouchy for weeks as I wondered if I would ever hear from my "fan" again.

It wasn't long after that before I was approached by an old acquaintance from college. His employers wanted to discover how a break-in was committed at their office so that they could prevent any more. What I actually discovered was a locked door murder conspiracy that was much more deliciously entertaining. It led me to uncover a underground Chinese gang- the Black Lotus. Apparently they were in town to collect an item pinched by one of their smugglers. With minimal detective effort required, I discovered the meaning behind the cipher and, by tracking a hunch about the museum girl who turned out to be an ex-member herself, I was able to learn the book used for the code and could then decipher the message. Unfortunately, she died that night, but at least it was after she did something useful. I took the message to that lap dog Dimmock where he took his men down to the Black Tramway. Shots were fired and in the end Shan got away. Ironically, I did find the treasure they were looking for. The Jade Pin, worth over nine million quid, was on the nightstand of their smugglers secretary. It was a somewhat exciting case, but all too soon it was wrapped up and I was bored again.

It was nearly a year of the usual string of thefts and disappearances before it began at last, the prelude to the game. It began when my brother forcibly brought me on the case regarding _that_ Woman. The Dominatrix, Irene Adler. I will admit she was the closest thing I have had to an adversary up until that point. It was all a power play all because of what she had on her camera phone. She got close to me, dangled a puzzle so enticing I couldn't help but to solve it quickly and efficiently. Though, by doing so, I had unknowingly unraveled years of my brother's work against a global terrorist cell. It didn't matter, because in the end I made up for it with the information on the hard drive when I successfully unlocked it. It was so disappointing in the end; The _Woman_ wasn't as infallible as she believed herself to be. She let sentiment get in her way and, as always, sentiment is a chemical defect always found in the losing side. Most importantly, it was on that day that Irene Adler revealed to me the true purpose of her little "exercise." My fan, the sponsor of crimes, was really the "Consulting Criminal," Jim Moriarty. The game had finally begun, and while my brother Mycroft looked as defeated as always, I was as excited as could be. The game had begun, but at that moment I was not looking ahead to any possible conclusions or implications of the game. No, I was just enthralled in the moment. Maybe if I had been more aware of what was going on around me then I might not have ended up in the predicament that I've found myself in now.

The game began with what authorities had thought was a simple gas explosion down at the library of the Roland-Kerr Further Education College; the site where all of this started over a year ago. What it actually turned out to be was a message for me in the form of a pink phone. The message contained five "pips" with a photo attachment that had whatever challenge I was to overcome. Naturally there was more to it than that, I was always on a time limit while some person somewhere in London was strapped with enough explosives to bring down a house. I got through them all; the truth of Carl Power's poisoning, Janis Car's side business, Connie' Prince's death by her housekeeper, and finally the fake Vermeer painting. I assumed that this would all lead up to the truth of what Moriarty really wanted: The Bruce-Partington Plans. I had recovered them for Mycroft because his people were too incapable of doing so and had kept them. I arranged our meeting at the pool where Carl Power's died and that's where I finally him. Jim Moriarty showed himself to be cruel, calculating and undeniably genius. Apparently I had caught his attention and actually pleased him with my performances over the past year in dismantling some of his organized crimes. I wanted to know of his intentions, what all of these tests were really for. A goodbye. That is what he told me. Moriarty had wanted to let me in on the fact that his attentions were going to be focused elsewhere for a while and that he wasn't going to have time to pay me any "special attention." He told me he wouldn't forget me, because he promised that one day I would die by his hand. But, for now, he wanted our first meeting to go off "with a bang." I wasn't going to just let him go, but I was held down by snipers and made to sit back and watch as my opposite escaped the pool. Upon leaving I received word from Lestrade that small bombs had detonated across the city. While no one was attached to these explosives, they were planted at each site where the earlier vested victims had been forced to stand. The car park, the middle of London, the apartment complex, and a kid's play park. Seeing as it was the middle of the night no one was around either parks; but, the accumulated causalities between the street and apartment bombing was 19 dead and 6 injured. Lestrade wanted to know what had happened, if I had failed another test that they didn't know about. Naturally that wasn't the case, but I had told them what I knew; that Jim Moriarty had vanished amidst the chaos of London and wouldn't be found. They didn't find this an acceptable answer for all the injustices wrought that day. Donovan and Anderson overreacted as usual and had claimed the entire event was my fault seeing how it was my "fan" trying to gain my attentions. They claimed London was safer without me bringing out the crazies and threatened Lestrade that they would take the case up with the head of New Scotland Yard if he didn't cut me loose. So I was relieved of my job as a consultant for the Yard that same day and was never called to work a case again. Lestrade attempted to console me with his sentiments. Telling me to lay low for a few months and then maybe he could see what he could do. I understood clearly what and why it happened, but just because I understood the reasoning behind didn't mean I had to like it.

After the game ended I spent weeks wondering the city, through all of its back and side streets, trying to keep my mind and its deductions sharp. It was during one of my nighttime wanderings that I had come across a fight in a back alley against some thugs and a smaller man. I was bored and, for the excuse of keeping fit and not bored, I easily took care of the low life punks with simple precise shots to their body's vulnerable points. The victim I did not care for, but he insisted on thanking me. Before I could immobilize the man, so he would stop thanking me, and continue he shoved something in my hands and dashed away. Looking back now I should have tossed it away knowing what vagrant had passed them to me- an obvious addict, run away from home, and a failure at pick pocketing. But I was so bored and took any excuse to ignore the reality in front of me. The bag contained cocaine, which that much I knew before even looking at it. Cocaine is a stimulant used to elevate mood, increase feelings of well-being, and increase energy and alertness. But I knew I was above this nonsense, I have seen the obvious effects of the use and abuse of the substance in my many wonderings around London. So why had I taken them? Simply put, I was bored.

~~~~~/\~~~~~

"Sherlock." The voice was deep, familiar, and full of authority. Naturally he ignored the call. "Sherlock Holmes it would be wise of you to retreat from that mind palace of yours this instant. We need to talk."

Said man could see the blankness of his mind begin to fade as the reality of his dingy flat once more filled his vision. Well, that and Mycroft.

"You've put on 4 pounds since I've last seen you here Mycroft. That can't be healthy for you." Sherlock yawned as he stretched his limbs. He glanced at the clock on the wall. _"Six hours have passed, no wonder I feel terrible."_ He grimaced as he finally sat up, if only to glare at his brother who had made himself comfortable in the adjacent arm-chair.

"Sherlock you have a problem. This needs to stop now." The Elder Holmes left no room for argument.

Though, being Sherlock, there is always room for argument. "I do not have a problem, Mycroft. You told me to engage myself in other recreational activities outside of crime work and I have. Now if that is all you have to say then I'd suggest you leave."

Mycroft's fist clenched the handle of his umbrella as he set steely gaze on his younger brother. "You know very well this is no such recreation I had in mind, and if you don't have a problem then why do you persist in the use of it when I know you are aware of the consequences long-term."

"I do it because-." Mycroft rolled his eyes before cutting Sherlock off with a wave of his hand.

"You're bored. I know." He released a sigh of resignation as his gaze softened a tad. "I know this inactivity has been difficult for you to bear with. I have tried to offer you work before, but-."

"I won't work for you Mycroft, you know this." Sherlock scowled as he tucked his oversized robes around himself.

"Exactly. Which is why I've come here with a plan to help you rid yourself of this ridiculous addiction you've found yourself with-."

"I'm not an addict!" Sherlock protested, but Mycroft continued on as if he hadn't heard him.

"-and to also relieve yourself of this perpetual state of "boredom.'" He finished with a sort of gleam in his eye. Sherlock didn't like that look and stared at his brother suspiciously.

"And what, pray tell, could that possibly be?"

Mycroft sat a little straighter in his chair, now adopting a smug expression as he told his little brother his inevitable fate.

"Why, rehab my dear brother."

~~~~~/\~~~~~

.

.

_**end**_

.

.

Well that's it for now! So tell me, what did you think of the changes in time? I hope if something doesn't make sense I can clear it up for you later! Please folks! Don't forget to **Read and Review- it only takes a moment!**


	2. The Meeting

Honestly it's been a pretty rough week. Classes just started back again for college, and on the very first day my laptop died on me, so it's safe to say I've been a little preoccupied with other things this week. I decided to go ahead and squeeze in chapter 2 while I still have some free time, so I apologize ahead of time for any errors it is un-beta-ed and definitely rushed!

Oh, and what did you think of my twisting the moriarty plot around? Interesting? Hated it? Don't care? I promise it's for a good reason! Did anyone see the last episode of Elementary last Thursday? Oh gosh I was just _**so** _excited!

Oh, and as far as I want ages to go, I tweaked those a bit too. So their new ages are...

**Sherlock: 27**

**John: 28**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of BBC, CBS, or Doyle's Sherlock characters or plots(that will be alluded to.) **

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

**.**

**.**

**_The Meeting_**

**_._**

**_._**

**John.**

Tired. It was the only thing he could register at the moment as he sat slumped in a chair in the empty break room of the Hospital for Special Surgery or, as the faculty fondly called it, the HSS. The young Brit rubbed his hands against his face in a poor attempt to wipe the exhaustion from him. John Watson had been on call since four that Tuesday morning, and normally he would be home by now, but a co-worker- David- he reminded himself, had called in ill today. Since he had taken over one of John's shifts before, the young surgeon felt duty bound to honor the favor. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 5:17pm. He was allowed an hour's break for dinner but honestly a quick nap seemed far more delectable than any food offered at their cafeteria. So there he sat, not caring that his white coat would be wrinkled after. As he began to feel himself nod off, his mind drifted back to a time where his biggest problems weren't corrective spinal surgeries; where it was his job to make sure a comrade didn't bleed to death on the field as he made sure that he wasn't shot in the process. Although, that last part hadn't worked out so well. So as Dr. John Watson of the HSS spinal surgery department drifted into sleep, the white walls of the break room faded into dusty browns as Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was once again stuck in the middle of the combat zone.

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

"John, John wake up." A voice called out to him through his radio. He vaguely registered a rocking sensation as he suddenly began feeling dizzy. This wasn't good, if he was too dizzy he wouldn't be able to make it to them in time before…"John get up, I think this is serious. The police are here to talk to you."

Then he was wrenched from the sands of Afghanistan and found himself once again within the white walls of the HSS break room, though this time he was no longer alone. Standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder was Becky, the desk nurse and he noted the apprehensive look in her hazel eyes. John slowly sat up from where he had slumped forward on the break table and quickly noted the time. 5:47pm- he still had thirteen minutes left too. As he inwardly bemoaned his lost time he hadn't caught what Becky had been saying.

"-just came in here and demanded to talk with you. He wouldn't say what it was about and he wouldn't show me a badge, but he insists on seeing you Dr. Watson."

John stared at her blankly for a moment, only remembering the main reason why he had been awoken in the first place. "The police?" It was a legitimate concern, for he could think of no reason why the police would need to talk to him about anything. Well, there was that jaywalking incident, but no one had been around and he had just wanted to go home to sleep…but no, that couldn't be it. The NYPD doesn't waste time on jaywalking surgeons.

The nurse simply nodded to him in reply. "That's what it looks like."

"Well then, Becky." John motioned for her to lead the way as he stood and straighten his coat. "I guess we should be seeing what all this is about then." And then they both left, with John shutting the lights of as they went, and leaving the once bright room in bleak darkness.

As they walked down the hall, John recalled what Becky had mentioned about no badge and decided to question her about the man he was to meet. "So you say he doesn't have a badge?"

Becky nodded and her blonde hair, pulled up in a hasty bun, began to fall loose. "He came with no officers, but he claims to be with the NYPD."

"Is he in any sort of uniform?"

"No, just a long coat and a ratty gray scarf." She told him as they dodged around a couple leading their son in a wheel cheer to the check-out desk. John vaguely noted the area the cast covered on the boy's leg and, given the jersey he wore, as well as his build, he concluded it was most likely a break caused by some sports accident. Most likely soccer.

Meanwhile, Becky was still continuing describing the man who had approached her. "It was hardly the official uniform of any respectable officer. And you should have seen the way he came barging into the ER's waiting room. I bet he scared half those poor people to death."

John only nodded as he wondered what he was being led into. "So, where exactly am I meeting this gentleman?" He inquired of his associate.

"Oh, it's just down here in the conference room." She motioned straight ahead on their left. "Apparently he needs to discuss some case with you and it was "imperative that it was to be somewhere quiet where the idiocy around couldn't seep in.'" John noted the irritated look on the nurse's face and was surprised. Becky was a little older then he was, but she still had that animated personality of a teenager. With working in this type of setting, she normally always had a cheery disposition when dealing with people. So, to see her actually looking irritated was quite disconcerting to John. He didn't have enough time to think much else because by then they had arrived at the conference room. "Well, here I leave you John. Don't worry about this meeting running late; I've already informed the other Doctors about it. If anything pops up while you're in they'll find someone to cover you." She informed him with a quick smile.

"Thank you, Becky." He returned it with his own grin before walking into the conference room.

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

When John walked into the room, it wasn't just one man as he had been expecting; although, he did spot him out quickly enough. He contrasted greatly with the other two men who must have come in shortly after Becky had left the first one here. They were obviously officers, judging by their suits and aura of authority, and were most likely the "police" the first man claimed to work for. The three were amidst their own conversation as he walked in and either hadn't noticed him yet or were comfortable enough to leave him waiting as they finished their discussions first.

"When you get a lead like that you can't just run off on your own." One of the detectives, an average height and weight African American, addressed the man with the scarf. "We hire you to help us out, Holmes, but that doesn't give you the full authority of the NYPD to barge into a place like this and start demanding to see employees." He accented his argument with fluid hand motions as if to drive his point home, but both other men seemed almost bored, as if this happens all the time.

John glanced down at his watch. 5:58pm. He closed his eyes as he tried to imagine himself leaving work at eleven and throwing himself on the couch at his small apartment he shared with an acquaintance of a colleague. He wanted to be anywhere but here…

"Are we keeping you from something, Doctor Watson?" The voice startled John out of his reprieve only to notice the man, previously referred to by the other as "Holmes" was addressing him now. John noted the accent and immediately decided that the man was from London, same as him. It must be a small world after all.

"Detective Bell," the other detective, an older man, with an air of professionalism about him, addressed his partner. "I'm sure Holmes just wanted to get here as soon as possible before Dr. Watson here returned from break, isn't that right?" He shot a look to the Brit and the latter just shrugged. John guessed that this detective was more experienced with dealing with this Holmes character than his younger partner.

"As you wish," Holmes agreed, though he still hadn't taken his eyes off of John yet.

The doctor suddenly felt subconscious as he felt the scrutiny of the other man's gaze. He became more aware of his rumpled coat from where he had napped early and probably the stubble on his face from where he had forgotten to shave that morning. John decided that he probably didn't look as professional as he had felt all day. The other man though, this Holmes character, couldn't have been much older than John himself. He was much taller than John and much paler. His hair was extremely dark and its curls where everywhere as if he had just been running. All in all, detective or not this bloke looked far better than John felt at the moment.

"Um, excuse me but, what exactly am I here for?" John was curious to know, but he also wanted a distraction from Sherlock Holmes as well.

"Sorry to take up your time while you're at work, Doctor, but we have a few questions we'd like you to answer for us if that's alright." John nodded in agreement and the senior officer, who introduced himself then as Detective Gregson, took a chair at the conference table before motioning John into the one opposite of him. John took the seat as Gregson asked his first question.

"You are John H. Watson, surgeon at the Hospital for Special Surgery?" He began.

John looked at him skeptically for a moment. _"Just look where you're at detective…"_ But John decided it was best to answer anyway. "Yes."

"You live in the West Acres Apartment complex, room number 434 which you share with a Mr. Robert Jameson?"

"Yes…" John could really not see where this was going at all.

"Are you aware of your roommate, Mr. Jameson's, occupation?" Gregson asked him next.

"He works at a pharmacy down on Hudson Street." John told him.

"Yes, so we've been told. Have you ever seen him at work before?" Detective Bell interrupted.

"No, I never saw the need to." John answered honestly.

"Then you probably aren't aware," Bell continued, "that the drugs he works with are the illegal kind."

John stared at the detective for a moment as he tried to process the implications. "What?"

"The drugs that Mr. Jameson works with on a near day-to-day base aren't the kind you can just buy at your local pharmacy Dr. Watson." Detective Bell told him. "We've been watching him for a while now, and thanks to Mr. Holmes here we were able to finally pinpoint the location of his actual operations."

John felt his senses come back to him. "Wait, are you telling me that I've been rooming with a drug dealer for the last six months?"

"Yes. Mr. Robert Jameson, or really Mr. Alex Brookston, had come close to trouble with us before so he thought it would be best to lay low for a while. He took in a roommate appearing low-income enough that he couldn't afford the expensive lofts he used to rent. This was he dropped off our radars for a while as he restarted his business in a new location."

Suddenly John remembered all of the strange behaviors of his roommate over the past few months. He would smell of chemicals, but would brush it off as cleaners used at work. Strange people would show up at the door and then Robert would be gone for days after.

"You were the perfect choice for a roommate for him, Dr. Watson." This time it was Sherlock. "A depressed, poor, and recently immigrated army doctor from London-you would of course be working long hours at the surgery while also juggling appointments with your psychiatrist. You'd barely be home at all which meant you would never be able to catch on to the fact that he was not what he appeared to be."

John stared at the other Londoner for a moment before he could feel his face redden as the other's words finally dawned on him. "Now, wait a moment, how would you even know-." But Gregson cut him off before he could finish.

"Now, Doctor Watson, we believe that Mr. Jameson, or Brookston, had an associate working here at the hospital. Someone who could snatch him a few key goods every now and then if need be. We believe it was the same person who introduced you to Jameson as a roommate. Right now we have all of Jameson's gang except Jameson himself and this associate. We believe if we can find the man who works here that, through persuasions, he should be able to lead us right to Jameson."

John could then see why the police had asked for him and suddenly he knew why he was still working at the surgery today. The one who had introduced John to "Robert" was David…the same David who called in sick earlier that morning.

"Oh of course. It was David. David Blakely down in CAS. He was the one who introduced us."

"CAS?" Bell looked perplexed for a moment.

"Oh!" John realized his mistake. "It's the Computer Assistant Surgery part of the neck and spinal surgeries department." He flushed in embarrassment at his mistake. He really needed sleep; he didn't know how much more he could take of this.

"Alright, thank you for your help Dr. Watson, we'll call it in." Detective Gregson spoke as he rose from his chair.

"Wait, I don't think you'll find him though." John told them quickly. They looked at him to continue and he told them. "David called in sick today, that's why I'm still here- I took over his shift. If what you're saying is true then Robert, or Alex, probably called him last night to warn him."

Bell cursed as he quickly pulled out his cellphone to call in a search and arrest warrant for the now missing David Blakely. "I'll get his description out," Bell told them, "and hopefully we can catch him before he goes underground as well." He quickly thanked John for him time before excusing himself to get started on the man hunt.

"Well, thank you Doctor, you've been a big help." Gregson held out his hand and John shook it. "While David is an insider for Alex, we don't believe he's high enough in their group to warrant any special assistance. If we catch him we should be able to get him to agree to a plea bargain."

"No problem, I hope you can catch up to them both then." Gregson left, but John noticed that Sherlock hadn't moved. Then John remembered what had bothered him so much earlier.

"You said I was depressed." John met the others gaze straight on; he wasn't going to be intimidated by this man.

"That's because you are." Sherlock told him. His icy blue eyes met John's stormy blue ones also with the intent of not backing down.

"And how would you know that? You don't know me at all." John challenged him. There was no way he could know. But Sherlock seemed to accept the challenge in his voice as his eyes seemed to brighten at the opportunity.

"I do know that you served in the military in Britain, given your distinct accent. You're also tanned above the wrist, but not above the collar so you wherever you were it wasn't a vacation. You also hold yourself at attention when others speak to you- you don't seem to notice it as by now its more instintual than anything. Given your current ocupation and training you were most likely an army doctor. Given the recent battle zones Britain was engaged in during your service that puts you in either Afghanistan or Iraq." Sherlock looked at him expectantly and John felt pressed to answer for some reason.

"Afghanistan." He told the other. Sherlock nodded in agreement as if he'd known the location all along.

"So then our next question is why would armed services relieve you of your duties so you could serve in an American hospital? Hmm, it could only be because something happened. Either you were wounded in action or your company was attacked, but what you walked away with wasn't as much as a physical wound but a mental one. Obviously you were no longer able to serve in your position do to trauma and were honorably discharged from the army before completing your whole tour. You couldn't deal with London, whether it's the people there or the fact that it was so dull- and that I can agree with you with. So you arranged for a job overseas, a new country where no one would know what you'd been through and where no one would have any expectations for you. A fresh start." Sherlock concluded.

"That was…" John was aware that he was sending blatant stare of disbelief to the other, but he couldn't believe it. "Brilliant." It was all he could think of in his tired and befuddled state of mind. "You got all of that just by looking at me then?" John Watson considered himself a simple man, and when he was impressed, well, there was no point in pretending he wasn't.

Sherlock's face changed, John noticed, but it was so quick he might have imagined it, that look of mild surprise. Sherlock nodded simply. "It's what I do."

"And you use this skill of yours, this," John waved a hand through the air as a gesture, "power of deduction to help the police then? What are you, some Private Investigator? Do they even have those anymore?"

"My job with the police is as a consultant detective, and before you ask, it is the one and only job in the world because I created it. Whenever the police are out of their depth on a case, which is usually always, they bring me in to actually go about solving it."

"That sir, is a very impressive job you have then." John grinned. "How exciting that must be solving puzzles for a living." Sherlock's mouth went to open, as if to protest it was more than children's games he did, but John had already started talking again. There was still one thing missing from the Holmes's impressive list of deductions.

"But," John eyed him quizzically. "How did you know about my depression then? Or that I've been seeing a psychiatrist?"

Now it was John's turn to look surprised as a near-sheepish looked appeared on the consultant's face for a moment. Something else was going on here, John decided.

"What is it? Something you're not telling me?"

"It's not as if I don't tell you, you won't find out later." The brunette finally said after a moment's pause.

"What do you mean?"

"In their search for Robert Jameson, or Alex Brookston, the police obtained a warrant for his place of residence."

Then it all clicked in John's head. "Oh." It was all he could think of.

"Yes, I'm afraid we've already been to your place of residence Dr. Watson. They searched all rooms, including yours, which was very clean by the way." Sherlock added the last part in a poor attempt at a condolence. "I noticed on the calendar on your desk you had every second Thursday of the month scheduled to see an "Ella Thompson" at eleven in the morning. When searching your bathroom the only drugs found beside your typical painkillers was Luvox-which is used as a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor and is most commonly used by psychiatrists to treat mild forms of depression. It wasn't hard to put the two together. Whatever happened in Afghanistan was the cause for your depression to set in which is the most likely cause of your settlement here, Doctor."

There was a short pause while the young doctor took in this recent news update about his "home invasion." Sherlock expected the usual angered or flustered reactionto this, but instead he got something entirely new. "You've been in my room?" John looked rather smug for a moment, and Sherlock was at a loss as to why.

"…Yes." The other Brit finally answered.

"Well, that's hardly fair at all." John told him, and was amused to see the shocked looked on the other man's face. "You cheated. It's not fair to include those in your deductions if you were given them right to you. I have to say I might not be as impressed with Sherlock Holmes as I was before actually." John shrugged in response to the consultant's blank stare.

"You don't react as most normal people do after I have done my deductions, Dr. Watson." Sherlock told him. "I have to say I actually might be more impressed than I was earlier."

"Please, call me John," the doctor smiled as he held his hand out for Sherlock to take, which the detective did. "And what might most normal people say then, hmm?"

Sherlock looked at a moment before grinning. "Fuck off." And then they both laughed aloud together.

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

**.**

**.**

_**end**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

So please tell me, what did y'all think? Any good? I went back through and found so many mistakes- and no one pointed them out! I'm taking that as a sign that y'all love me so much you don't care how many errors you'll see! No new update until the weeknd; although, if I get more reviews I can be swayed into updating faster!

So until next time!

and don't forget..._** Read**** and Review!**_


	3. The Arrangement

Here's the newest update, though it's a bit shorter than I would prefer, but at least it's here! And this was literally typed out and published, no extra wiggle room to really review, so forgive me! And I want to also thank my lovely two reviewers so far- you both are lovely~!

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of BBC, CBS, or Doyle's Sherlock characters or plots or lines(that will be alluded to.)**

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

_**.**_

_**.**_

**The Arrangement**

**.**

**.**

"You know, you really didn't have to come with me." John told his newest companion as they sat together in the back of one of New York's yellow cabs. "It's out of your way isn't it? Plus aren't you still looking for David?"

After the initial meeting with the police was finally finished, John was excused from work to head home to collect his things from his apartment which was now a designated "crime scene." Sherlock never left with the other detectives. He decided-all on his own- that he would accompany John back to his place instead of the officers Detective Gregson had offered. John had tried to argue this, but someone had to be with him "just in case," or so they told him. Honestly, he might be mildly depressed, but that doesn't make him helpless. He was a trained soldier and that in itself would be enough protection for him. But he did have to admit, listening to Sherlock deduce the life stories of those they drove past in the streets did prove mildly entertaining.

"Nonsense, I know enough that David Blakely will be afforded no such protections from Brookston. With the warrant out he should be in police custody by late this evening- the police here can't be that useless. Once in custody he will submit to the typical emotions of betrayal and revenge and will sell out his old partner to the force in a plea bargain." Sherlock told John rather simply.

"Well, you have that all thought out haven't you." John, who by now was becoming accustomed to the rapid fire deductions, just nodded his head.

"It didn't require that much effort of thought at all. I wonder how it must really be for you people to have to struggle over juvenile crimes like these."

"Well Sherlock, not all of us can be a "proper genius" like yourself."

"Obviously." The brunette nodded in agreement. "But now that I have cleared this all up, well, that leaves me free time to assist you in your move Dr. Watson."

"But that's the thing isn't it." John began to explain to him. "I don't have anywhere to move too just yet. New York is pricy, and I still have to save up my salaries to pay off other debts of mine too. I don't have much with me, so it should only take a few boxes." John sighed in exasperation as he sank lower into the faux leather interior of the taxi. With all that had happened he really hadn't thought about all the problems that moving on such a short notice would cause him. He couldn't ask anyone at work, most of his friends were married or also sharing rent- there'd be no point in asking as there wouldn't be any room for him. The only option was really getting a hotel, but that was only a short-term solution for a perpetually long-term problem. He couldn't afford having to alter his budget to fit in hotel fees on top of everything else. With all of these thoughts rushing through his head, it is easily understandable about how he missed that Sherlock had apparently been talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's apparent lack of attention before he spoke again. "I said I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk to days on end."

John stared blankly for a moment at this random statement. "Good for you…So why are you telling me all this again?"

"Well roommates should know the worst about each other right?" Sherlock's phone signaled a text alert, and the next moment he was too busy with typing out whatever response to see the shocked expression cross John's face.

"I'm sorry, what? Roommates? Now where did all this come from?" John sputtered out, this man was moving too fast and though John could say he seemed decent enough, he really didn't know him at all.

"Well it is partially my fault that you no longer have a home," Sherlock told him as he typed away on his phone. "It was my network that discovered his new residence, though at the time we didn't know he was sharing. The place will be marked off by police and even if you can move back in when they're through with it you won't be able to afford it all on your own, not at that location and price. That's why you had a roommate to begin with. I have a room upstairs that no one is using and it can get rather dull talking to the skull…" the detective seemed to have finished with whoever he was texting as he placed his phone back into his coat pocket. "So, obviously logic dictates that you move in with me for the time being."

"You just expect me to move in with you then? We hardly know each other." John told him.

"I know that your brother is concerned for you, but you don't get along well with him, possibly because he's an alcoholic or because he's recently left his wife." It took a moment for it to register, but finally John's brain was prompted to reply.

"And how would you know all that then? I haven't even mentioned anything about my family or trust issues."

"Your phone." The taller man held out his hand for the specified device and John fished it out of his jacket pocket to give it to the waiting appendage.

"Now, your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you've been living with a roommate. You wouldn't buy this - it's a gift. 'Scratches. Not one, many over time - it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already." The smug look on his face was bluntly obvious; he was enjoying this too much.

"Oh, the engraving?"

"Yes, Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live - unlikely you've got an extended family, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, it's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he's given it away. If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left HER. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help - that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or don't like his drinking."

John ran his hand across the face as he was nearly overcome by the rapid fire deductions. He really needed sleep; he was too tired for this. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked grew triumph at John's last question. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks round it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."

They sat in silence for a moment, there was no obvious unease in the atmosphere, so far John hadn't appeared to be normal like all the others out in the world.

"You know you really are ridiculous, you know that?" The blonde gave him a rather pointed look.

"Really now?" Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow at the accusation.

"You got all of that from just glancing at my phone when I checked it earlier. That couldn't have been more than what, fifteen seconds? That is just amazing." Sherlock looked very smug at the compliment, but soon deflated with John's next statement. "But you weren't right about everything."

Sherlock looked positively aghast at his companion, and John decided that this look was definitely the most amusing thing he'd seen all day. "What did I miss? Everything was spot on!" Sherlock argued- his logic had been flawless, what had he missed?

"Harry..." John smiled as he looked out the window, remembering the owner of the name as he spoke. "...is short for Harriet."

"Harry is your sister? Of course! There is always some form of nonsense like that isn't there..." he muttered as the cab finally arrived at their destination.

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

Turns out packing up his things hadn't taken that long at all. The apartment had been cleaned out- most of the things John was used to seeing scattered about the place no gone or bagged. John's room in comparison to the rest of the place still looked relatively untouched; although, if he knew that New York's finest would be coming through he would have made more of an effort to pick up. He looked across at all the numerous articles of clothing scattered across the floor and on his bed-which was still made up since he hadn't had a chance to actually sleep in it for days. His medical texts and articles were stacked precariously on his desk in the corner next to his laptop.

"Well, I guess I should get started then." John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as he'd contemplated the disaster that was his room. He walked over to his closet where he had his suitcases and bags from when he'd first moved in. He decided that he'd take all of his major items; clothes, books, and the like, but he could trash the rest and worry about getting later.

"Sorry, but this might take a while and you-." John turned around to find Sherlock already at his desk where he was busy packing away books.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping. These things do move more quickly when more than one person is at it."

"But you don't need to do all that. And where did you get that box from?"

"I know I don't have to, but this way you now owe me." The younger man sent him a cheeky grin. "As for the box, I texted in some help for your move."

"What are you on about now?"

Before anything else could be said, four teenaged boys walked right into his room. They were wearing oversized clothes and jackets, and if John didn't know any better he'd think these youths were dropouts. They each carried boxes with them and, after sending a cheery greeting to John, went about packing up John's room in a systematic manner. John motioned for Sherlock to come over before he whispered franticly at him.

"Sherlock, what are these kids doing here! They should be in school and- and what are you laughing about?"

"John, these kids don't go to school, they're homeless." Looks like John didn't know any better.

"Why on earth do you have homeless kids owing you a favor?"

"They're part of my network- in exchange for small favors I give them small rewards. It's a very justified working system John."

Said man just pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to remember what normalcy felt like. He checked his watch; it was now nearing eight at night. Was it barely sixteen hours ago that he left for work, totally clueless that by the end of the day he would be evicted due to circumstance and left to be helped by a British genius and homeless youths? He couldn't deal with this, he needed sleep.

"I know you do John, but as soon as we finish up here you can sleep for as long as you like." Sherlock turned away to now supervise the packing of John's residence. Great, now he was so tired he was speaking without even meaning too.

"I'll sleep after I find some place to go, you mean." John corrected him as he went over to his drawers to begin packing his suitcase.

"I thought we settled this, you're moving to 221B Baker Street." His voice left no room for argument, but John at this point was beyond caring.

"No, you might have settled it, but not me. I can't just move in with you like that. I don't know anything about you other than you are a genius Consultant Detective." John returned.

Sherlock sighed before dropping the medical text he had been holding before grabbing John by the upper arm and gently led him from the room. "What could you possibly need to know about me John?"

"Well…" John couldn't really think of anything specific now. "Why are you here, in New York I mean."

Sherlock stared at him hard for a moment before shaking his head. "Topic off limits, sorry." Before John could offer any protests Sherlock decided to return the question. "What about you? You were shot in the left shoulder back in Afghanistan, but now you have a clean bill of health yet you were still discharged. What was it that triggered your depression?"

"You know I won't answer that." John stood straighter as he quelled the emotion threatening to rise from the still vivid images in his mind.

"Exactly my point. There are some subjects that are best left untouched- why dwell in the past while we are trying to decide for the present and future?"

Silence reigned supreme after that; the only sound was that of John's belongings still being packed away by members of Sherlock's "homeless network."

It was John who finally decided to break the silence as he sought to put their earlier conversation back on trick. "Any friends then?" He tried.

"No." The silence was still there, so John's sleep deprived mind began to supply nonsense for him to say next.

"Boyfriends, girlfriends? Either is totally fine of course."

"Of course it's fine, but no I have no time for that. I consider myself married to my work." Sherlock turned to John again and cut him off before the blonde could continue his babbling. "Now, anything else? I'll add that I'm also no murderer, drug dealer, or thief you need to worry about."

"Do people normally assume you are?" John raised a blonde brow, but only got a shrug in response. "Well, I wasn't worried about that. I mean, you do work with the police after all."

There was a pause and John shifted uncomfortably. Admitedly, there wasn't a reason why he couldn't move in with Sherlock. Plus he really needed to find a place fast.

"What's the rent like then?" if it was too much to pay then that would solve the problem all in itself.

"No rent Doctor Watson."

"Hold on, what do you mean no rent?" John asked quickly.

"The building is owned by my family, all bought and paid for. There will be no need for you to pay rent to a building that I am now in possession of."

"But I won't just free-load off you like that." John had pride, and he wouldn't allow for that at all. "I'll only stay if I can pay the rent or if we come to some other arrangement."

The taller male looked at John and once more those piercing blue eyes ran over him with scrutiny. "Well then," he finally answered. "Maybe an arrangement could be made- you do owe me a favor now after all John." Said man recognized that gleam that suddenly grew in the other's eyes. Sherlock had an idea, and now it was only a matter of how well John was going to take it.

"You're an army doctor." Sherlock now appeared to be done analyzing him. "Any good?"

John nodded, not knowing where this was going. "Very good."

"I bet you've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"_John, there's nothing you can do, we've gotta go now. John…! …Watson get out of there!"_

"John?" Sherlocked looked at him curiously as he waited for a reply.

John cleared his throat before answering. "Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course… Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Would you like to see some more?"

It was not what John was expecting him to ask. "What?"

"When I'm out on cases I need an assistant. Most of the ones the force provides are useless and won't work well with me. You, on the other hand, my dear _Dr._ Watson are the perfect solution."

"I don't know about that Sherlock, I mean, I'm not much of a detective." John ran his hand through his already ruffled blonde locks.

"You won't have to be, that's why I'm there. What you'll be is my assistant, a medical consultant right on the scene and a valuable asset I could use." Sherlock's eyes danced with the possibility of having someone who wasn't as dreadfully average as those he'd been forced to work with so far.

"So I live with you, and instead of rent I'd be offering you my assistance instead?" John had to make sure he was getting this right. "But what about the job I already have? I'm on call nearly twenty-four hours, I won't be able to just drop my scapel and go whenever you need me."

Sherlock gave him a look that screamed "boring excuse" before he answered. "You mean the job you hate?"

"Hey, I never said I hated my job. I do a lot of important things you know- I help people. That's why I wanted to be a doctor." John was affronted by the other's tactless statement, but he wouldn't admit the other was right. He loved helping others and caring for patients, but he missed the action of the front lines, being able to save a young man's life where it really mattered. Saving a soldiers life had real meaning to it, knowing that he was involved in keeping his country safe. There just wasn't that same kind of pride when he just worked lumbar vertebral body replacements; though, he wouldn't let Sherlock know this of course.

"How about this," Sherlock ran a hand through his own dark curls before looking back to John. "You live in Baker Street, rent free, while you search for a new residence. With this housing market I doubt you'll find any place soon and you don't want to start collecting hotel bills. While you work for me, take leave from work. Get a feel for what a real difference you could make again out in the real world, John, and not be stuck in a surgery all day. If the time comes and you find a better offer you can leave and go back to the mundane life you claim to love so much. But don't forget John, you're still a soldier; and I know that you can't walk these streets without seeing the battlefield."

John now glanced around at what had been his life for the past six months. It was true- life had been full of long hours of work and minimal hours of rest. He honestly hadn't even been around to even the most common tourists traps of the Big Apple because he'd been so busy with work. …Maybe he did need a vacation.

"So I'll just be your assistant then? On these cases? You work pretty fast Sherlock, how do you know that I won't slow you down?"

"You'd be my colleague John, and if you ever get to slow I'll just leave you and text you where to catch up." It was an honest enough response.

John thought about it for another few moments as Sherlock waited patiently. John sighed, resigned to the fact of how this decision would have definite implications in the future. Before he could answer though, there was a knock at the door before a policemen entered.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Watson, but are you almost finished packing? We need to get you moved out so we can close the scene for final sweeping."

"Yes, I'm just about done here, we'll be out of your way momentarily." He promised. The officer nodded before leaving the room once again.

"Well, John, have you made up your mind?"

John turned to look at his new companion before realizing that Sherlock already knew his answer. John shrugged his shoulders before turning to go back to his room to finalize the packing so they could get out of there.

"You win, let's go on to Baker Street."

**~~~~~oOo~~~~~**

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**end**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

Now I'm going to try to keep the characters mostly in-tacked here, but there will be tweaks. Sherlock obviously is a picky people person here, I tried a cross between CBS & BBCs two characters so I hope this is an equal balance. Plus I did include some of the more important lines from _A Study in Pink- _and script/line copying won't happen that mcuch I promise! I just really thought that those first deductions are really important so I wanted to include them.

So there goes the end of chapter 3, I hope y'all have enjoyed it thus far, but then again I don't really know! Now I'm going to be busy, and well, I don't know when next I'll post again. Thank you for reading thus far, and hope to hear from you soon!


End file.
